


The Rules and Regulations

by ImperfectOrphanage



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperfectOrphanage/pseuds/ImperfectOrphanage
Summary: Hanekoma doesn't understand how the kid keeps showing up in the cafe.





	

Hanekoma wasn’t used to having visitors at the café. He had patrons, and he had Players, but he didn’t have companions. Being a Producer didn’t afford him many friends outside of work, as he technically wasn’t allowed to have close relationships.

But the damn kid kept showing up.

He wasn’t sure how the kid got into the café half the time. Hanekoma kept it locked when he was out and about, and often he would put up walls to keep those in the UG from breaking in for fun.

But somehow, someway, the kid kept showing up on his couch.

“Oi,” he said, poking the youth in the stomach with a toe, “get off my couch.”

Lavender eyes fluttered open and the boy rolled onto his back to look up at Hanekoma. He had a large bruise on the left side of his face, and a series of red marks across his throat. When the boy smiled-smirked, rather-his bottom lip cracked and began to ooze blood.

“What the hell happened ta ya?”

“I got in a fight, obviously,” the kid muttered, sitting up to dab at his mouth with a sleeve. “Apparently I shouldn’t have taken a short cut to home.”

Hanekoma sighed. He sat down on the edge of the couch and reached out to touch the injuries. The kid winced and tried to pull back, but Hanekoma gently stroked the finger marks on the kid’s throat. “Damn, y’really got yer ass handed to ya.”

The kid giggled. He fluffed his hair and licked at the blood on his lips. “I suppose it would be rude of me to ask for some ice? My head hurts.”

The barista shrugged. He hopped up from the couch to go to the front of the café with the kid following him without a word. There was ice in the freezer and a bottle of painkillers in the cabinet. Hanekoma made a makeshift ice pack out of a towel and handed it to the boy before digging in the cabinet for the painkillers. He wasn’t sure why he had them. It wasn’t as if an Angel had headaches.

“Here ya go,” he said, handing the kid a glass of water with the pills. “But y’really shouldn’t just show up unannounced. It’s rude.”

The boy took the medication and set the glass down on the counter. He pressed the ice pack to his cheek and exhaled when the cold hit. “Thank you.”

“Did ya hear me? What’er ya doin’ here?”

“Joshua.”

Hanekoma blinked. “What?”

“My name is Yoshiya Kiryu but you can call me Joshua.”

He stared at the kid. “Sanae Hanekoma.”

“Nice to meet you,” Joshua said, and closed his eyes. “Is it alright if I crash here for tonight?”

“Absolutely not-“

“No one was home.”

Hanekoma frowned. He knew he shouldn’t get close to the boy. It wasn’t smart and it was completely against the rules, but Hanekoma hadn’t been one to follow the rules to a t. He grumbled, scratched at the back of his neck, and finally huffed.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you,” Joshua said. He turned around and started for the couch.

Hanekoma followed, and watched as Joshua curled back down on his left side. The ice pack rested beneath his cheek and the boy’s eyes shut once more. Within a few moments, Joshua’s breath evened out and Hanekoma could tell he was asleep.

“Damn,” he hissed. “Why do ya keep showin’ up?”

There was no reply, obviously, and all Hanekoma could do was cover the boy in a worn blanket before taking the ice pack away. It wouldn’t be wise for him to sleep on it.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Hanekoma was in the middle of sketching a mural out on a large canvas. He didn’t hear the kid at first. Somehow the sneaky bastard had come to stand behind him to watch.

“It looks…interesting,” Joshua said. He had a cup of coffee in his hands. “Did you make this? It tastes revolting, but it has a certain warmth to it.”

“You know,” Hanekoma turned to stare at Joshua in full, “y’can always leave.”

Joshua sipped the coffee, eyed Hanekoma over the rim of the cup, and hummed in response.

“Seriously, you should,” Hanekoma said, pencil bouncing between his fingers. “Go on, git.”

“Now who’s being rude,” the boy returned, still sipping the coffee. He smiled and pointed to one of the many lines on the canvas. “Is this supposed to be blue?”

Hanekoma flinched. It was in pencil. The lines were grayscale and there wasn’t a bit of color on the canvas that any normal human should be able to see. But this prissy blonde kid just stared at it as if seeing a masterpiece.

“How the hell-“ Hanekoma started, but paused when Joshua’s finger trailed the canvas.

“I like the use of color here and here. But are you sure these words are necessary?”

Again, Hanekoma was surprised. “You can see those?”

Joshua frowned. “Did you think the knock to my head made me blind, Sanae? Of course I can see the words. Also, it’s very colorful but a cat? Why do you have a cat with gloves on here?”

“Shit, kid.” He handed the pencil over to Joshua. “What would you do?”

“Hm, let me see,” he said softly, his words a purr on the edge of cracked lips. The pencil moved over the canvas in an array of colors and lines, with whirls and swirls of words and phrases. “Does this look alright? I hope I’m not ruining your piece.”

“No, no you’re not.” Hanekoma stepped back. “What else can you see?”

Joshua tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Outside. What do you see?”

The boy’s mouth curled into a thoughtful frown. When he spoke, his words were quiet, and his expression shifted into worry. “Is it alright to tell you?”

Hanekoma forced a smile. “Yeah. It’s alright. I don’t judge.”

A long pause as Joshua set the pencil down. He walked to the front of the café and stared outside of the large paneled windows. His hand splayed on the glass and he took a deep breath before speaking.

“Why do they struggle so much? I don’t understand what they are fighting for. It seems pointless when all that awaits them is death.” Joshua glanced over his shoulder. “You can see it, too?”

Hanekoma’s eyes went wide. He moved to stand behind Joshua, one hand on his shoulder and the other pointing at the street. “What do you see right there?”

“A strange, bouncing symbol. But if those people come close to it,” Joshua trailed his finger over the glass from a couple of Players to the Noise, “it will eat them right up.”

“Well, this is an interestin’ development. You’ve got the sight, kiddo.”

Joshua turned to look up at Hanekoma. “What do you mean?”

“Kid, not many people see the Game.”

“What’s the Game?” Joshua folded his arms over his chest. He looked uncomfortable, as if waiting for Hanekoma to do something to him. “Is that what I’ve been seeing? What sort of Game?”

Hanekoma took Joshua by his shoulders and led him to the bar to sit. He went behind to pour another cup of coffee, and to reach beneath the counter for a clean pad of paper. Setting both in front of Joshua, he rolled a pencil over to the kid. “Draw what you see.”

“I’m not an artist,” he laughed.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Hanekoma sat down, folded his arms on the counter, and waited, “go on.”

Joshua pouted. He stared at the paper for an inordinate amount of time. Finally, the pencil scratched over the expanse of white, and soon the messy shapes of Noise and people with wings-Reapers-began to take shape on the pad. Joshua continued to draw, page after page, until he had filled at least six pages with various doodles. The one doodle that concerned Hanekoma, was that of a tall man in white.

How Joshua had seen the Composer wandering the city on a closed frequency was terrifying enough, but the fact he could see the contours of the man’s face and clothes made Hanekoma shiver.

“Hey, when’d ya see that guy?”

“I’ve seen him around,” was all he would say about it. “Who are these people with wings? I see them at crossroads and chasing the other people.”

Hanekoma pointed out a pair of people. “These are Players. They’re dead, and they’re playing the Game to come back to life.”

He expected questions, but Joshua never failed to confuse Hanekoma with the randomness of his words. “What happens to the bodies? If they’re dead, do the people they leave behind know they are, or do they simply fall out of the world as if they never existed?”

The barista fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. He lit it up and took a long puff. The smoke exited his mouth in rings and whirls. “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell ya.”

Joshua shrugged. “What if I wanted to be in the Game?”

Cigarette smoke curled up Hanekoma’s nose and he coughed loudly. “The hell, kid. Why would you even think to?”

“I’m bored.”

Hanekoma rubbed his face. This kid was infuriating and yet endlessly fascinating. “Y’don’t enter a life and death struggle because yer bored.”

“Why not?”

He closed his eyes. “Kid-“

“Joshua. Call me Joshua.”

“Yeah, yeah, Joshua,” Hanekoma said, “sorry. I just ain’t used ta having people ta talk to.”

Joshua took a sip of coffee. “You should make friends, Sanae.”

“Yer one to talk. Hangin’ out with an old guy like me,” he teased.

“Well, if my peers were as intelligent and interesting as the artist CAT, I wouldn’t need to be talking to an old man with wings.”

Hanekoma’s mouth fell open for a second. He quickly recovered and slammed his hands down on the counter in an attempt to frighten Joshua.

The boy didn’t even flinch. He set the coffee down and folded his hands together. “Yes?”

“Yer not supposed ta see ‘em. Yer not supposed ta see any of this.”

“It isn’t my fault,” Joshua whispered. “I didn’t want this.”

With a long sigh, Hanekoma sat back down and leaned his chin into his hand. “I know. I’m sorry. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s usually fer a reason.”

“Can I change it?”

Hanekoma frowned. He stamped the cigarette out into a tray. “What?”

“The Game. Can I change the Game?”

He could hear his conscious screaming to shut up. Don’t tell the kid. Don’t tell the kid about the Composer and the music of Shibuya, and the fracturing melody she was beginning to have. Don’t tell the prissy blonde kid with freaky powers anything else. Just twist his memories and send him back into the world and forget you ever saw him.

Hanekoma massaged his temples. “Yeah. Yeah you can.”

“How? Explain it to me in detail if you are allowed,” he said, sliding his finger around the rim of the coffee cup. “I would hate for you to get in trouble for telling a freaky powered prissy kid things you shouldn’t.”

“Wait, what? How the hell-“

“It isn’t just the Game I can see.”

“Fuck,” Hanekoma groaned. He warred internally and finally decided to tell Joshua everything.

He told the kid about the Composer and how to dethrone him. He told the kid about the rules of the Game and how the new Composer could tweak them at the start of his reign. He told the kid about Noise, about Players, and about pacts. He even told the kid about why the Game was necessary for the growth of the city and how it helped the citizens and those who won the Game.

Joshua listened with a disinterested expression, but his eyes were lit up with amazement. He finished the cup of coffee and turned it upside down on the counter to tap his fingers against the paper. “I want to be the next Composer, Sanae Hanekoma. I want you to help me.”

“Technically I’m not-“

“You weren’t allowed to tell me what you have, but you feel it, don’t you?” Joshua slid from the bar stool and stood with one hand in his back pocket. “You know it is time for change, and I am the one to usher it in.”

Hanekoma stared at him long and hard. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Good. It’s settled then. I will come back by tomorrow and we can discuss the details. Perhaps by then you’ll have learned how to make a decent cup of coffee.”

“Hey!” Hanekoma barked, but Joshua was already out the door. He disappeared around the corner and Hanekoma could feel the boy’s music until it faded into the melody of the crowd.

The barista groaned, placed his head in his arms, and grumbled against the formica countertop.

“I’m in so much trouble.”


End file.
